


triage

by professortennant



Category: New Amsterdam (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Sanctuary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “Of course I could choose, Helen. But making the choice to let someone die or leave someone behind--” He broke off and swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be responsible for hurting someone I’m supposed to protect; someone I care about.”He looked at her so intently, so tenderly, that tears--sharp and hot and unexpected--prickled at the corners of her eyes. Later, she would blame her boldness on the glass of wine she had blown through earlier in the evening.“Are we still talking about patients here, Max?”





	triage

**Author's Note:**

> I very much love this ship and love the way the show is handling it so far. I don't think I could ever write adultery, so until Max and Georgia divorce, it's just gonna be a lot of pining and messy emotional confessions over here. But man, I can't wait to smut it up for these two.

Helen rolled her shoulders back, wincing at the creak and crack of her muscles and joints, and poured herself a generous serving of red wine. It had been a long day at New Amsterdam--one of the longest of her careers. 

With the first long, deep sip of her wine, she chased away the lingering image of Max’s face, stricken and panicked, from her mind. She had turned on her heel after speaking in thinly veiled metaphors and analogies, bracing herself against the whipping cold and the sound of his voice calling out for her. 

_It’s for the best_ , she told herself as she settled herself in front of her fireplace. Between the wine, the flames of the fire, and the merry crackling of the candles along her side table, warmth was slowly starting to seep back into her bones.

Max wanted everything and it had been a thrill at first to know that  _she_ was his everything: friend, deputy, doctor, confidante, and that tiny flick and ember of something more.

But he took and took and took and it wasn’t until she looked up one day, spent and shivering, and realized she was feeding herself on scraps of his affection--the occasional hug in her office ( _God,_  the feel of his arms around her, warm and solid and  _there),_ the intimate dropped pieces of knowledge, the way he ducked his head and shot her a crooked, barely there grin. 

So she cut ties, triaged their relationship into distinct, separate parts. Their working relationship was in the clear--she would be his deputy with no problem. Their relationship as doctor and patient needed work, a quick workup and a round of treatment, but the prognosis was good. Their relationship--their  _personal_  relationship--though? She had suffocated it then and there on the operating table and pronounced it dead. 

It was for the best. She could still remember the panic in his eyes at the prospect of choosing. She would never, ever be the one to make him choose or, worse yet, allow him to have his everything and not choose at all.

Helen took another deep, dragging pull of wine and winced at the burn settling in her chest. 

Just as she was contemplating dousing the flames and dumping the remnants of her wine to turn into bed early and sleep away the hellacious day, a sharp, explosive round of knocks sounded at the front door. 

Frowning, Helen pushed herself up from the chair and peered through the peephole of the door, wondering who it could be at this hour. 

She could only see the top of his head, hair already thinning slightly from the chemotherapy, and the distinct dull blue of his scrubs, but she knew exactly who it was. 

Heart in her throat and steel in her nerves, she pulled open the door to greet him.

“Max,” she said with a frown, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart. “What are you doing here?”

Max looked wild and unhinged, eyes wide and pleading and searching, traveling over her face and dipping low to settle on her toes. His gaze lingered on her bare feet and she wondered if he was shocked at the bright silver and ornate jewelry that wrapped itself around her toes or the shock of color on her toenails.

She cleared her throat and curled her toes self-consciously, adjusting her stance and leaning against the doorjamb. 

The movement and sound jarred him out of his reverie and his head snapped up, once more a riot of energy--all gesticulating hand gestures and expressive face. 

“You left me on the roof,” he said accusingly. “I could have been locked out or blown away or--”

“And yet you seem perfectly fine to me,” she interrupted. Behind her, the clock on her mantel place rang out in deep clangs and she was reminded of the late hour and the long day. 

“What do you want, Max?” she asked again, fatigue seeping into her voice. She was spent, all of her energy expended on the crisis of the day and their talk on the roof. 

She watched as Max swallowed and his hands fell to his sides. He swayed a little on the spot and she thought he looked a little pale and clammy. She curled her fingers into her palm to stop herself from reaching out and pressing her hand to his forehead to check for fever.

“You asked me to choose,” he said suddenly, head snapping up and eyes meeting hers. His blue-green eyes were clear and sharp and completely focused on hers. 

“Max, we already talked about this...”

“No,” he interrupted sharply. “ _You_  talked about this for us. It’s my turn now.” He ran a hand over his hair, looking away as if to gather courage before meeting her gaze once more. 

“You asked me to choose and I told you I couldn’t, that I wanted everyone to live. But, you see, the thing is Helen....I  _did_ choose. When you told me I had to choose, I knew exactly who I would prioritize to save.” 

His eyes dropped from hers and he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor, voice becoming husky and low. “I knew who I would leave behind.”  

Helen frowned at him. “But at the hospital you said you didn’t want to choose. That you  _couldn’t.”_

He scoffed. “Of course I could choose, Helen. But making the choice to let someone die or leave someone behind--” He broke off and swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be responsible for hurting someone I’m supposed to protect; someone I care about.”

He looked at her so intently, so tenderly, that tears--sharp and hot and unexpected--prickled at the corners of her eyes. Later, she would blame her boldness on the glass of wine she had blown through earlier in the evening. 

“Are we still talking about patients here, Max?”

His face transformed into one of awe, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “I thought you liked the metaphor,” he teased softly. “Something about triaging our relationship.”

She shook her head, lip trembling. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Don’t joke about this.”

The smile from his face and he stepped forward, hand outreached as if he intended to brush the backs of his knuckles across the curve of her cheek. Her sharp intake of breath--one of both anticipation and dread--stopped him, though, and his hand fell back to his side. 

He now stood just a few inches from her, his body’s warmth radiating and wrapping around her. 

“I wouldn’t joke about this, Helen. Never.”

She nodded and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, studying the dirty tips of his Converse sneakers, absentmindedly noting the different in the size of their feet. His personality made him feel ten feet tall, but it was a nice reminder that he  _did_  dwarf her; that he could wrap her up in his arms and haul her against him and press her comfortably against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist and--

His fingers brushed over her forearm, drawing her attention. She sniffled and looked up at him. 

“When you asked me to choose, I made a choice, Helen. But--” He searched for the words, his fingertips tracing over the fine hairs of her arm in a soothing pattern. She shivered and fought the urge to press closer or tangle their hands together. 

“Let me mitigate the damage, okay? Let me try and save everyone a little hurt.”

He looked at her pleadingly, head ducked to meet her gaze. It would be  _so_  easy to press herself up onto her tiptoes and slot her mouth over his ( _God,_  how many times had she imagined shutting him up in this way--all hot lips and wandering tongues and reverent, stolen gasps of pleasure). 

For the second time that day, Helen Sharpe found a well of strength within her and stepped back, retreated into the doorway of her apartment and hid behind the door, away from those penetrating eyes and the warm, wandering fingertips on her skin. 

“Do what you need to do, Max,” she said, proud of the way her voice didn’t crack or tremble. “But I meant what I said on the roof. Things between us are too messy as they are and something has to give. This--” She gestured between them, indicating the amorphous  _thing_  between them. “This is what needs to give for now.”

He closed his eyes at her words and she thought he rocked back on his heels a little, as if her words held tangible weight that knocked him back. 

“Don’t you want to know who I would have chosen?” he asked quietly. 

Of course she did. She wanted to hear him say the words  _Helen, it’s you. I choose you._ She’d heard it in her mind over and over again. But now, faced with the reality of their situation, she couldn’t bear to hear him say the words and know that she would be waiting--waiting for him to end his marriage, waiting for him to battle cancer, waiting for him to potentially lose that battle and die. 

Helen Sharpe wasn’t a woman to wait. 

She looked at him sadly, fingers gripping the edge of her apartment door for support as she prepared to sever the lifeline on this part of their relationship.

_Triage._

_“_ It doesn’t matter, Max,” she said softly, a sad smile on her lips and her shoulders shrugging softly. “You got everything you wanted, anyway.”

“Not everything,” he said insistently, making a half-stilted step towards her. 

She shook her head at him, steeling her heart against the last beating pulse of the possibility of  _maybe_  and  _someday._

_“_ Go home,” she ordered, heart breaking beneath her breastbone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Max.”

And with that, she closed the door in the face of his wide, pleading eyes and escaped back into the warmth of her apartment, back towards the fire and the wine and the space where Max Goodwin would never invade, would never be.

_It’s for the best_ , she reminded herself once more, wiping furiously at the falling tears against her cheek and chin.  _This is what triage is for._

_Save what you can and abandon a lost cause._


End file.
